My soul is an empty crisps packet
caught in the sour mood of a shouting wind
She snarled and I careened
— a drunken trapeze artist
That moody spirit let me fall upon a mountain top
at the feet of a brick of a black man shouting
he has seen the promised land!
My heart cracked as an egg that slipped from the bench:
his people still stumble in chains
My shouting mistress carried me aloft and I fell
in the slit of a rock upon another summit
where the finger of God scratched Hebrew into stone
The wizard’s face burned as the Lord’s shadow
passed before him as the orange tears of a volcano
I know, I heard him call up to the Almighty. They’ll
melt their earrings and innocence and cast a calf
Beneath the roar of my mistress’s temper I heard the
wizard plead like a lawyer, forgive them Lord
They don’t yet know
That temper carried my dizzy soul to another peak and
I beheld a young man slap the Devil on his left cheek
Get thee hence, Satan, he said, rejecting a throne
offered by that beauty with the stinging face
I heard the wind hiss and I cringed awaiting another crash
I broke my fall like a child off a bed and marvelled
at the sight —Oh God what a sight!
ten thousand prostrating candles hurling shadows from a cave
and ripping sleep off a man with the bugle command, Recite!
My soul my soul! I am overcome. I begged the wind to return me
to my home and she took pity and swept me in a final gust
(c) Copyright J S A Hayward 2016